Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 05 - Just Ducky (12 page)

I actually was thinking about going shopping at Kohl’s the day I got the flyer about their sale, and then again while I was searching for an excuse to get out of the house for a few hours. But, as I thought might happen, I did indeed find something better to do. Where’s the lie in that? The only thing I forgot to mention was that instead of going shopping, I might decide to go tracking down a ruthless killer.

Now I found myself driving toward the new coffee shop on Locust Street to get myself a cup of coffee. I felt a bit daring, so I thought I’d broaden my horizons, and probably also that fat ass I was just mentioning, and get a large cup of Mocha Malt Frappuccino with whip cream on top. It was no doubt, guaranteed to contain a full day’s worth of calories, or your money back.

Once I’d soothed my nerves, and gathered up my courage, at the coffee shop, I’d drive next door to Casey’s and fill up with gas, and then head north on the gravel road that ran alongside the convenience store. With any luck at all, I’d spot the Jeep in a driveway and come up with a viable reason to stop and talk to its owner.

I drove for at least a couple miles with no success. I finally pulled into a long-winding gravel driveway to turn around and head back to town. As I started to back around, a rapidly moving vehicle passed from behind me, heading north. It was a Land Rover, painted in desert camouflage, and looked close enough to a Jeep that I felt certain it was Bo Reliford driving it. There were not many vehicles with that paint design traveling the roads around Rockdale, Missouri, and Ducky could have easily mistaken a Land Rover for a Jeep.

I quickly turned my wheel, backed in the opposite direction, and then tried to catch up with the Land Rover. It was moving fast and erratically, so I stayed just far enough back not to lose sight of the cloud of dust enveloping the car. When the car turned into the driveway of an old mobile home in ill repair, with a large lean-to shed beside it, I slowed down.

In the middle of the front yard, which was comprised of ninety-percent dirt and dried up weeds, and ten-percent smashed beer cans, was a big black contraption with a row of cylinder disks. A piece of cardboard, with “Four Cell” scribbled in paint on it, was propped up against the unusual object. I wasn’t sure what it was called, or even totally sure what the thing was used for, but I was suddenly thinking that I might be interested in purchasing it.

I pulled into the driveway behind the Land Rover, unrolled my window, pointed at the piece of farm equipment and misspelled sign, and asked, “Hey there, sir, is that thing still for sale?”

An older man with a long, scraggly gray beard, and greasy ball cap, stepped out of his car carrying an opened Miller Lite in one hand, and a nearly empty case of beer in the other. It was obviously not his first drink of the day. He stumbled a little, looked at me with rheumy eyes, and replied, “Yep. Wanna buy it?”

“Um, kind of depends on how much you’re asking for it.”

“Fifty bucks! So, whatcha say? Ya wanna buy it?”

“Well, I’m sure that’s a fair price, but I need to look at it a little closer first.”

“Help yourself. Got a tractor?” he asked, listing a little too far to the left before he caught himself and straightened up.

“Of course,” I replied. Just because I was driving a little sports car didn’t mean I couldn’t have a John Deere in my barn at home. But, even as I spoke, I could feel my nose growing longer. I started nonchalantly cracking my knuckles in an effort to appear more like a laid-back farmer’s wife, and less like a anxiety-ridden liar on a furtive mission.

“Don’t think that harrow will fit in your trunk, lady,” he said, slurring his words a bit. Was he catching on to my ploy? I wondered. Or, in his drunken stupor, could I tell him I had a secret compartment in my car where I stored farm implements, and have him not bat an eye.

I wasn’t sure just how tanked he was, so I just politely laughed. “Oh, my husband will pick the harrow up in his truck tomorrow, if I decide to buy it. My name’s Lexie, and I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch yours.”

“It’s Bo. Wanna beer, Betsy? We can go in the house and visit over a few beers, and I’ll tell ya all about the harrow.”

Betsy? Well, that was close enough for me. And even though I knew he was now flirting with me, I felt safe enough going into his trailer alone with him. Even with a beer or two in me, I felt sure I could handle myself if he tried to do anything other than talk. He was old, and so drunk he could barely walk. I could surely outrun him, if not roll him and steal his wallet in the process.

I agreed to stay just long enough for one beer, hoping to drill him with questions about Ducky. As looped as he was, he’d probably have a fairly loose tongue, spilling vital information he didn’t have enough wits about him to know he was spilling. I followed him up the rickety stairs, to a dilapidated wooden deck, and on into the trailer. It reeked of not only booze, but also of garbage, mold, and dirty old man. When I felt the cream in the Frappuccino I’d drank begin to curdle in my stomach, I almost turned around and walked back outside, but I decided I could tough it out for a few minutes if it meant getting some useful information out of the old polluted geezer.

“Hey, Betsy, I also got an old toilet I wanna sell out in the shed if ya be interested.” I really had to concentrate to make out his words. He handed me a beer and opened up a new bottle for himself before speaking again. “It got a little cruddy over the years, so I went and got me one of them new-fangled crappers, you know, with all the bells and whistles. But, don’t worry, the old one’s still usable and only leaks a little bit when ya flush it. And since ya is such a nice lady, I’ll let it go for twenty bucks.”

I just smiled, trying not to upchuck and spew the pricey Mocha Malt Frappuccino across the trailer. Bo motioned for me to sit right next to him on his filthy, tattered couch. I decided to sit on the other side of the room on a metal chair, where it was harder for bacteria to grow, while trying not to imagine a toilet so “cruddy” that this man would refuse to use it.

Just the mention of the word
toilet
had my bladder demanding to be emptied. All twenty-two ounces of that damn fancied-up coffee must have raced through my system to my bladder, bypassing my kidneys altogether in its haste. I crossed my legs and tried to ignore the feeling of urgency.

“I’ll give purchasing the toilet some thought, Bo. Say, what’s your last name? You look so familiar to me. I know I’ve met you somewhere before.” The longer I conversed with this man, the longer my nose felt like it was growing. Before long, I’d have to tilt my seat back in order to drive my car home. I really didn’t like lying to anyone, even soused strangers, but sometimes it was necessary, and usually not at all malicious, or apt to cause anyone any harm.

“Name’s Reliford,” he answered, although it came out sounding more like “really bored” because of his current condition.

“Hmm, I knew a lady whose last name was Reliford before she got married a few years ago. Her name was Bertha. Poor lady was found dead in the library a couple days ago. Was she any relation to you?” I asked, innocently.

“Yeah, she was my old lady for a long, long time. Went by the name Bert, and now I hear she goes by Ducky. Always hated the name her mama give her. Too bad about the dying thing. I heard she gone and hung herself.”

“Yeah, that’s what the investigators said. She didn’t seem like the suicide type to me, though. Did she to you?” I asked.

“Dunno. Never could figure that broad out, myself.”

“Were you two still on good terms? When was the last time you saw her?”

“Ain’t talked to Bert since the divorce was final,” Bo said. He had drained his last beer in two or three gulps and opened up another bottle. He seemed in somewhat of a stupor, as he continued, “But I think I might have seen her in (hiccup) town a couple weeks ago. I pulled up behind a (loud juicy belch) VW bug at a light, and the driver looked like that old (very graphic adjective) bitch, so then I (incoherent muttering) so I could teach her a lesson.”

“You must be very angry about the divorce. I’m sure you didn’t deserve to be dumped that way,” I said, hoping to get him stirred up and elaborating, no matter how crudely, on how he, in a drunken rage entered the library after I left, got involved in a heated argument with Ducky, or Bert, as he called her, and decided to drag her up the ladder and hang her from one of the log beams. Afterward, to save his own hide, he typed up a suicide note on one of the computers designated for library patrons to use, printed it out, and left it on the chair at her desk. That’s what I hoped to hear and be able to decipher, amid all the hiccupping, belching, cursing, and even, occasionally, noxious farting. With all the sounds emitting from him, this old fellow was a one-man band.

If I could get him started confessing his sins, I would activate the voice recorder app on my smart phone, and then drive his recorded confession straight to the police station. I was very proud of the plan I’d developed, and was mentally patting myself on the back for a job well done. So naturally, I was then terribly disappointed when instead of reciting a detailed description of how he’d murdered his ex-wife, he merely passed out cold on the couch, dropping his nearly full beer on the linoleum floor.

Watching the beer flow out of the bottle onto the dark, grimy floor, creating a large puddle, the urge to urinate became more than I could control. As much as the thought disturbed me, using this man’s
new-fangled crapper
had become a necessity. I’d used enough gas station restrooms in the past to perfect the art of peeing without one inch of my flesh ever touching the toilet seat, and I would have to utilize that talent again now.

When I was done relieving myself, I’d head home and leave Bo to sleep it off in his chair. There’d be no more conversing with him until he sobered up, and I needed to get home shortly anyway, to avoid worrying Stone.

I found the bathroom behind the second door down the hallway. The restroom was every bit as nasty as I’d imagined, but I’d have to risk untold germ and bacteria exposure, and use it. I locked the door behind me in case Bo woke up and came looking for me. Evaluating the toilet in front of me, I tried to imagine what bell or whistle it had that the old one might not have, and came up with nothing. Unless, I thought, it was the black mold under the lid, or the ring around the bowl a jackhammer couldn’t chip off.

After peeing while performing a world-class balancing act, I realized there was no toilet paper on the holder. There was not even an old Sear’s catalog in the john. Thank God I carried a small pack of Kleenex in my fanny pack just for emergencies such as this one.

After completing the task at hand, I grasped the doorknob only to find it wouldn’t unlock. I shook the rusty knob as violently as I could, and then jammed my fingernail file in the key opening, and wiggled it frantically. I began hollering out as loudly as I could, hoping to raise Bo. When those attempts failed, I looked for door hinges to remove the bolts from, but for some odd reason the door opened outward instead of inward, putting the hinges on the other side of the door.

My next thought was to crawl out the window, but was forced to accept the fact that, although I might be able to squeeze my arms and head out the tiny window, the extra junk in my trunk was going nowhere. Even if I busted out the window, and greased the window frame with oily residue off the floor, there was no hope of squeezing my rump and thighs through the opening.

Damn that Wyatt Johnston! If I didn’t always have to keep so many fattening treats on hand to satisfy his sweet tooth, and then feel obligated to taste-test them before serving them to him, there might have been a prayer of escaping Bo’s utterly disgusting privy.

I tried messing with the doorknob again, while intermittently calling out Bo’s name, to no avail. Glancing at my watch, I knew it was Stone calling as soon as my phone rang. I could be evasive, or even downright lie about my situation, but what good would that do me at this point? It wouldn’t get me out of the slimy, stinking bathroom anytime soon. I decided to bite the bullet and explain to him what had happened. I knew it would result in a lecture about my appalling disregard for my personal safety, and my lacking the sense God gave a lemming, on Stone’s part, and a lot of shameless crying and pleading on mine, but it had to be done.

Apparently, Stone was getting accustomed to my impulsive nature, and the unfortunate and sometimes dangerous, predicaments this bad trait sometimes landed me in. He was angry, disgusted, and bitterly disappointed with me, but he didn’t sound at all surprised. He sighed and asked for directions to Bo’s place. Before he hung up, he asked, “This dude actually bought your story of being interested in buying his harrow?”

“Well, sure, I was very convincing. He even believed I might want to purchase his old toilet, since he done went and bought himself one of those new fangled crappers.”

Stone didn’t laugh, comment, or even sigh again. He just rudely hung the phone up in my ear. I could tell it was going to be a long, long night.

Chapter 8